little.red.boat.
Thursday, September 26, 2002
to sum up 'To sum up' - a sum of partial thought, in parts, as summed up below.
Below, in an overlong explanation/apology, girl rationalises have lost the zing in her thing,
and having to live life more than write about it for a couple of weeks.
Sucky?
To sum up...
To sum up
A girl, or woman, of -let's say - 25 (or so), has a weblog.
She wouldn't call it a weblog, seeing a weblog as an altogether more helpful thing, pointing people to other places, rather than to just herself.
She, this girl, let's call her Joanna, would rather perhaps call her site a journal.
Or a 'thing'.
Started to give her practice in writing, and the discipline of doing so, it soon became a somehow read thing, a phenomenon to her and thereby an addiction.
Or, if thinking as addiction as a negative word, then certainly a certainty.
A reflection of life. A reflection on life. A way of seeing life while living, and from other angles too.
Seeing life through the first person, through rose-tinted spectacles, through a glass darkly and through the round, square and triangle window all at once.
An excuse to go off on a tangent without anyone looking at her funny.
However.
Sometimes life can only be seen from one angle at a time.
Sometimes, when life is a list of one-more-things, and to-do lists, there is little room for thought, reflection, observation or humour.
Or memory.
Or writing about things that are too close to the person writing and too far away from anyone else.
And let's say, having built up this thing as a 'thing' in her mind, she feels an obligation to it.
Silly? mm. maybe.
An obligation to the discipline, an obligation to the rhythm, an obligation to herself and an obligation to a whole bunch of people.
Which feels...
Anyway.
Slipping out of third person, which is pissing me off, I'm not shutting down, but I'm on a go-slow.
Certainly not in the rest of my life, only here.
If anyone reads this, feel free to go and read something else.
When you hear a hint that 'anna's back on (some kind of) form', visit back, in the meanwhile-couple-of-weeks-time I have to go and tick off items on that to-do list.
And I know that some of you hate bloggers that apologise, and I apologise for that.
That is, of course, just who I am.
Sorry.
I'll be fulfilling my need for discipline every couple of days, if I can,(gosh, no, not like that, I meant the writing discipline, not the whole being spanked thing, not that kind of discipline. That sounded awful, sorry. Although it would probably be a sideline at university. "Hear about my need for discipline... 0898...") I've got so many things running round my head to write down.
It's just, at the moment, they won't sit still long enough for me to write them down. Or actually look at them, or anything.
My head is full of pre-schoolers for thoughts.
Not in an ick way.
So. Time for me to go and continue my week of 'lasts'.
Last candle session, last mandala session, last batik.
Last wedneday...
Last time I'll go and watch a shit wednesday-early-morning-movie in this particular bedroom on Iona, last time on a wednesday night that I'll slip into a fitful worry-dream filled sleep and wake up thinking of packing.
Last time....
last time...
lasttime.
Rubbish, I'll be back in a few weeks.
You, nor the island, can get rid of me that easy...
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
very sorry tired and ill yet bisy backson.
displacement...(more to me then you will ever know)
You can add to the displacement, no-I-don't-wannapack-not-even-a-little-bit, activities below;
Bad daytime television, absolutely entranced by it, I was...
Nap time. I have to admit here, I'd just managed to pack half a box and then, realising the thing I'd just packed was my sleeping bag, I unpacked it thoroughly and settled down for a sleep.
Wandering around a bit.
More work stuff that wasn't packing.
Going to the pub. well, I have to. It's my last week. What am I going to do without my local pub?
Go to another pub.
But that's not the point right now.
The point is pre-emptive nostalgia.
Spend time with friends, a bit, wandering around. And at the pub. Obviously.
Sitting on the floor of room, staring into space.
Or at daytime television. Same thing.
Trying to think of things to post not dull.
Failed.
Mopped kitchen floor, unblocked sink, cleaned microwave, tidied cupboards.
Cleaned bathroom.
Bathed.
So, to sum up;
Boxes packed? - three quarters of one box.
Laundry done? - Everything I own. I smell an awful lot like flowers.
Clean? - Yes, me, my clothes, and everything around me apart from my room and my belongings.
Sense of satifaction? - Not great, I must say.
Tuesday, September 24, 2002
Displacement activities, so far today, in order of something....
- Working on my day off because it's not packing. - 1 hour and a half.
- Talking in advance about meeting in a few days time - 1/2 hour
- Gossiping -1/2 an hour.
- Folding my laundry - 10 minutes
- Folding other people's laundry - 20 minutes
- Moving boxes from one side of room to other without packing anything in them - 5 minutes
- Moving said boxes back again to strip bed - 4 minutes
- Moving twice moved boxes back to first moved place - 5 minutes
- sitting on floor having a little cry - 3 minutes
- email/posting on blog/IMing sister. - 17 minutes so far. I really should go and pack...
Right. Yes.
Do excuse me, I'm off to put more laundry in, beat my rugs, grab some lunch, smoke some and maybe pop down to the shops...
When talking to your line manager or boss, reflecting on work and colleagues for the last time, is diplomacy or candour the order of the day?
What's good etiquette?
All of a sudden, with very little notice, I seem to have turned into my mother.
I remember my childhood as a series of 'Diary' panics.
"I've lost my diary!", "Where's my diary?", "Have you seen my diary?", "I need my diary!", "We can't go anywhere, I don't know where my diary is!", "blah blah blah Diary!", "doo-dah's on the phone! I need my bag, because in my bag is my..."
I never thought I'd get to a point where I'd love or need a diary so much.
I'd never thought I'd get to the point where I'd panic.
And here I am.
I have my beautiful little black Moleskine, page-per-day, quality paper, thin-lined, page-marker, full-moon-indicating and everything, and I'm panicking because I haven't got it on me.
Everything's in there, phone numbers, birthdays, arrangements, things-to-do lists, notes for the Little red boat, everything I do or want to do is in there.
And I know where it is. It's on the bench in the craft room. 300 metres away up a big hill. And it's safe there, and no-one's going to steal it, read it or move it.
Yet my heart is jumping.
It's my diary.
And I want it.
I know that the first thing in the morning I'll be wandering into work on my day off to find it.
Rather than packing, rather than my hand-over notes, rather than all the other important stuff, I'll be running around saying "My diary, I've lost my diary, I need my diary...."
I knew I'd turn into my mother at some point.
I didn't realise it would be this September.
Monday, September 23, 2002
Nine sleeps til I leave.
All sense of tact, politeity (or politeness, either will do) and rational small talk are ebbing away. Conversation held today;
Woman; So! What brought you to the island?
grumpy-ill anna;I work here.
Woman; ...
anna; I work here. That's what brought me here.
Woman; So! What brought you to work here?
anna;What?
Woman; What brought you to work here?
anna; What?... well, There was a nice job going. And I didn't have one.
Woman;Oh. Are you a Christian?
anna; Hah?!
Now I write it down it sounds really bad. In my head, it didn't sound so bad.
I should point out that I redeemed myself further into the conversation. I think.
And I'm ill.
That excuses everything.
And it's St Adomnans day.
Which is relevant not at all.
Unless he's the saint of Colds and Bad moods. Which I don't think he is.
You know when you cough so hard you constantly want to vomit?
Yeah. I have that.
Damn, my sister just did the same thing, but in glorious techniclour.
Great minds, etc.
Last 20 Searchengine Queries Unique VisitorsMy last 20 search engine referrals.
23 Sep, Mon, 00:09:22 Yahoo: scooby doo porn
23 Sep, Mon, 00:44:25 Yahoo: wet piss man
23 Sep, Mon, 01:07:08 Google: scooby doo porn
23 Sep, Mon, 01:20:17 Google: side effects penicillin
23 Sep, Mon, 03:31:21 Google: uk etiquette hug
23 Sep, Mon, 03:32:55 Yahoo: red pleated skirt
23 Sep, Mon, 03:40:13 Google: little porn
23 Sep, Mon, 03:48:08 Yahoo: Paul MaCartney Wallpaper
23 Sep, Mon, 04:09:22 Google: red
23 Sep, Mon, 05:24:08 Yahoo: "small breasts"
23 Sep, Mon, 05:34:21 Yahoo: Mr. Snowman Party Penguin
23 Sep, Mon, 06:14:41 Google: penicillin side effects
23 Sep, Mon, 06:21:23 Google: ducks< yellow stuffed toy
23 Sep, Mon, 07:08:18 Google: red pubic hair
23 Sep, Mon, 07:15:06 Google: girl thong boat
23 Sep, Mon, 08:56:40 Yahoo: pantyline
23 Sep, Mon, 09:16:33 Google: "Tim Chicken"
23 Sep, Mon, 11:59:52 Google: crossed legs ladylike
23 Sep, Mon, 12:22:00 Google: girls snogging girls gallery -full -frontal
23 Sep, Mon, 12:50:01 Yahoo: perfect eyebrows
The last 20 questions to which the universes answer was "Go find Anna at Little red boat! She'll know!"
Only able to do this because they're slightly less x-rated than usual.
I'm particularly fond of 'Wet piss man', and 'uk etiquette hugs'.
I would say, where the uk stance on hug etiquette is concerned, not being a man drenched in wee, or a 'wet piss man', would be fairly high on the list.
What is the uk stance on hug etiquette?
Certainly we don't approach random people on the street and hug them.
We don't really hug people we don't know, or people in authority, Teachers, doctors, bank managers ("Aw! Thanks for my loan! Come 'ere, you! Gissa hug!")
Otherwise, it's fine to hug people as long as you know them.
Or rather, know them and like them.
Or alternatively if you know them, don't like them and you're drenched in urine.
I do, incidentally, have perfect eyebrows.
Sunday, September 22, 2002
I have some questions about snot (boogers).
I also have some complaints.
I don't know where it comes from, or why I have so much of it.
I don't really want to know where it comes from. People have given me hints, or rather, have waved their hands around and said 'sinuses' but not clarified any further.
As far as I know now, my sinuses are full of millions of little green cows, pooing.
Or the weather system in my sinuses is different to that outside my head, and september is the month for a thaw, the great greeny-yellow glaciers are melting and slowly returning to icky nose gloop.
Or my sinuses, and the little factory of people within them hate me, intensely, and are busily beavering away to produce enormous buckets of euw. Ah- CHOOO! excuse me.
I have to admit, I was rather suprised by the savage nature of my hangover yesterday, which was not reasonable bearing in mind the sensible (ish) amount I had drunk.
It wasn't a hangover, I discovered, as the day went on, and the headache went away but the mugginess didn't, and then the nose started, and then the sneezing started, and then the coughing, and the coughing, and the coughing.
And then the cough-sneeze hybrid, much less common but much more painful.
Actually, I have a friend for whom the cough-sneeze hybrid is really quite common indeed. But, then, he can't do it without farting too, so we'll not talk about him.
Oh, god, my head.
I have a cold. I want to stand up and shout it from the roof-tops, but I might catch a chill.
I have a cold, coughing hurts and I fear for my life.
Maybe it's just a first-day-cold thing. I seem to have become almost male in my pain-tolerance-level.
Either that or I am, actually, going to die.
At this point I want a nice clean room with boxes packed and stacked and ready to go, a nice clean craft room, with everything stacked, counted, labelled and ready for the next person to take over, I want a clean duvet cover, a room, perfect in temperature, some kind of roaring fire, a cat, and someone bringing me Lemsips or preferaly Hot Toddies on a tray.
Failing that, I would like a tissue.
Ah-CHooooo!
Saturday, September 21, 2002
I can't remember the rest of the train of thought, that's the thing.
It was one of those long and meandering ones, sparked off by something someone said, moving through all sorts of twists in logic, memory, knowledge, electrical impulses, all those sorts of things, however they work, all that activity that goes on behind a ponderous expression...
Anyway. The resultant thought at the end of this mysterious process, and this bit I can remember because a) I was entirely convinced by this point, and b)It was the bit I said out loud to everyone in the room.
"Wouldn't it be great if nipples were made of velcro?"
As soon as I'd said it I couldn't remember the rest of the thought, or why it would be so great.
It took ten minutes of brainstorming to come up with some possible reasons.It seemed like such a good idea at the time.
- Tassels.
- novelty temporary nipples.
- Removal of need for bra, to be replaced by simple strap around the neck attached to breasts, or velcro pads on the inside of clothing.
- If nipples had different types of vecro, hooky on one, fluffy on the other, breasts could be joined in the middle for easy storage.
- No need to hold baby to the breast, once patent on velcro-mouthed babies is agreed.
But then, so did the whisky. I hurt.
Friday, September 20, 2002
Off to a party tonight at the Outdoor centre on Mull, with lots of booze, no electricity, compost toilets and hopefully some nice people.
There will be lots of nice people. And some Canadians too.
Not that Canadians aren't nice people, they are. Very nice.
So nice people, and Canadians.
And some dead wild geese. Yum.
I'm having a severe ear worm problem today, every song that pops into my head is bad, and every song that pops into my head pops then straight out of my mouth, and I can't stop singing Abba and Kylie, Steps and S Club, that song that the mice sing in Bagpuss and Andrew Lloyd fucking Webber.
Do excuse me, apparently it's Sir Andrew Lloyd fucking Webber.
Is there any solution to songs stuck in heads?
People keep amusing themselves by replacing each song with a worse one, but that's no good, and every time I try to harbour sensible thought it gets pushed out of the way by 'tragedy'. Which it is.
I wonder how many songs are up there? Pop songs, jingles, choral stuff, hymns from when I was a kid, nursery rhymes, instrumental music.
My actual favourite songs of all time, they're up there too.
But does 'One with the Birds' loop itself around my mind, playing and replaying, turning and singing away every other thought?
No, it's 'Don't cry for me Argentina'. Which is wank.
Actually, worse than that, it's a Scottish Brass band Medley version of don't cry for me Argentina' that someone played me once, with bagpipes and a march beat.
Maybe I should see a doctor.
She could cut my head off, and then it wouldn't be a problem any more...
help me.
Thursday, September 19, 2002
So this morning I've got a big lot of candles to deliver to the shop, two boxes worth, and I need to get them there this morning so they can be priced up and on sale by this afternoon.
I'm narky because I don't want to make two trips, I'm narky because I know that at some point on the journey I'm going to drop the box or the box is going to break and my lovely candles will be ruined.
Luckily, at this point, someone offers me a solution that means I can get both boxes down the hill to the shop at once without fear of breaking them, and with the least amount of energy spent.
However, soon enough I realise that walking down a hill with a pram full of candles makes me look slightly unhinged and feel like a complete twat.
And walking up the hill again with an empty pram I look and feel even worse.
The point where the brakes get jammed and I spend five minutes on my hands and knees swearing certainly helps none.
The point where all my favourite people suddenly appear from behind a hill and start making jokes about bad divorce settlements helps a little.
The point where I stop to relight my cigarette and the pram goes rolling away down the hill toward an oncoming van makes my morning complete.
By, but I'm looking forward to this afternoon.
When do I get to go to the pub?
How to make a candle by anna pickard
I'd always use the rigid plastic moulds, given the choice.
They're clear, so you can see your design, they don't have much give, so when the wax contracts on cooling, they don't move with it and this makes for easier removal, and they're easily cleanable with a bowl of hot water and a clean scrap of cotton.
You need to grease the inside of your mould with a little vaseline, just a little, not enormous globules, just a skin of grease. Like a cake tin. It'll improve the appearance and the removal process.
You can use a brush to reach all the way round, if you'd like, but I find a piece of toilet paper works well enough, smooths the vaseline smoothly and evenly.
You can even share your toilet paper with a friend. And how often do you get to do that?
Especially with vaseline.
Then you take your wick, about 3 centimetres longer than the mould itself, tie a knot in one end and pass the other though the hole at the top of the mould.
When the knot is sitting happily on the top of the hole, press a lump of blu-tack onto it, otherwise it could still leak, once you turn it upside down. I've seen this happen many times, and it makes people sad. I hate people to be sad.
Turn the mould uside down.
At the now-top of the mould, you have a loose piece of string and a large hole, compared to the bottom here you have a knot, some blu-tack and a small hole.
Place a narrow stick across the now-top, and attach the wick with a half-hitch.
At least, I think it's a half-hitch.
For the longest time, I believed it was a sheep-shank, but it turned out that that was bollocks.
You can't believe anything middle aged women tell you these days.
Anyway, make a loop underneath the stick, pass the end through, and pull it upward, sharply.
Whatever that is, a 'knot' anyway. Anything to keep the wick straight.
You're now ready.
You've got a greased mould, a stick, a wick, and the will-power to carry on.
Let's talk hot wax.
It's hot. It needs be hot. The hotter it is, the nicer the finished candle.
A regular industrial bolier will keep the wax at 80 degrees celcius or so, not boiling point but still reasonably warm.
Here I've got a pretty standard three-pot set-up, meaning I can have three colours at a time. Each pot, sitting in the water below, like a double boiler or bain-marie, contains up to 2kg of wax and 2 tablespoons of sterin.
So there are three colours, white, purple, and orange.
These are standard colours for me.
You'll find that there will be always white. And then some variation on blue/purple, orange/yellow.
Never green. Ever. I detest the colour green.
Not overly keen on red either. Not in candles. In other things, yes, but not candles.
And the many, myriad things you can do with candles.
Well, 5 things.
ish.
You can make a candle all of one colour. Pour it in, bam, you're done, you can go.
Why would you want to?
So you could make stripes. Different colours, different shades. Each layer will take a time to set, depending on the width. If you're using good hot wax, a layer about a centimetre wide will take aout 12 minutes, 2cm, 17 mins or so. It depends a lot on the weather and heat of the room, too.
So you you can do horizontal layers, diagonal layers, by pouring and resting to set on an angle, you can tip the candle for a layered effect.
You can put things in it. Chunks of wax, made like toffee, put in a shallow tray and scored while cooling, then broken up. These are great for rainbow, contrasting, or standing stone effects. The vaseline on the walls of the mould should help them stick, but you can also use a thin layer of wax as cement.
Shells, you can put in, although keep them away frrom the wick, they're sea things and don't know much about fire.
Consequently they smell, big lots, when burned.
You can mix the colours. White and puple make a light purple. White and orange make light orange. Orange and purple make... well, brown, but some people like brown. Especially with orange. It has a retro-70s-itch-classic glow about it.
So just go nuts at this point. Imagination and that. Use the time inbetween the layers setting for smoking or playing pool, meditation or conversation, go and have coffee, go and concieve. Everything's been done, and anything's fine.
When you're reaching the top (actually the bottom) leave a space of about 5mm, wax shrinks while cooling and will fom a dip in the bottom of the candle.
It's easier to top this up if you leave a little room.
Don't worry, I always forget too.
When the wax is utterly set, after about 5 hours, remove the blue-tack, snip the knot with sissors and the candle should slip out easily. In theory. If it's stuck in any places, which it always is, manipulate the mould gently and it should unstick itself.
If the outside of the candle is in any way rough, a smoothing of vaseline can work wonders.
I've done this once or twice a week for two and a bit years. You think I'm not bored of it?
It's good to write things down. Which reminds me. I'm supposed to be doing my handover notes, not my journal.
But still, and often said, you should write about what you know.
This is what I know.
Dull, ha?
I've run out of cigarette papers, which is a good thing, in that I cannot smoke any more.
And a bad thing, in that I cannot smoke anymore.
Am having more and more difficulty being polite.
The shorter my time remaining becomes, the more fun it is to snipe, sarcas (be sarcastic? give sarcasm? NO, I like 'to sarcas'), insinuate and amuse myself.
And harder to contain distain or amusement.
And I can no longer control my mouth.
Things that I would previously have said only in the safe confines of my head come toppling from between my lips, and although they seem to go down well enough, I'm scared for the next two weeks. It's getting worse by the day.
Do loud people have annoying voices, or are all voices annoying with volume?
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
Y'know, if I wasn't still drunk, I'd probably be very hungover right now.
I'm not looking forward to that.
It's been ages since I woke up feeling like something had slept in my mouth.
I wonder if something did...
Hypothetical situmaybe;
during a disco a girl meets a boy that seems to think she's groovy.
In the pub the night after he seems to still think "maybe..."
And he's very attractive.
What, remind me again, does she do about it?
Bearing in mind he's Canadian.
And she's not.
Can the divide be crossed?
What does she do?
a metaphor for life number something in a series of some, or possibly none.
Jack was a bit part actor.
Also a friend and a lover, but a bit part actor most of all.
The main thing he played a bit part in, in my time of his knowing, was King Lear.
By William Shakespeare.
He was the second spear carrier from the left. Or perhaps third.
The point was this; It was a good theatre, and good to have a role at all.
But his character wasn't important,.
And he, most importantly, wasn't famous, and so He, to the audience, was less important than the character, who wasn't important at all.
So they coughed.
Everytime he came on, they coughed.
They didn't want to cough during one of King Lear's speeches, they didn't want to cough during anything important.
So they coughed everytime Jack spoke.
Because he wasn't a main character, and so anything coughed over would be said or proved later.
Isn't life like that though?
no, you're right, it's not.
It's like that big Doom game thing y'all keep talking about.
But with more hidden things.
And more corners.
I almost punched someone I worked with today.
After a whole day of feeling sad alone in my work environment because I knew I wouldn't get that chance again.
Because I like being alone in my craft room, and I knew that guest patterns over the next couple of weeks mean that I wouldn't.
After a day of seeing my friends and relating to them in their problems and in their jobs.
She saw me and asked why I felt sad.
"because I'm leaving two weeks tomorrow"
'And You feel sad Already?'
Is two weeks too much for you? After two and a half years? Should I only feel sad the day before I leave?
Well, sorry. I do.
I bawled today.
Out loud.
Because this good life, this good job, is going to belong to someone else.
And I envy them.
Monday, September 16, 2002
So, on the way down from Aberdeen (cute little city, but the sun doesn't seem to shine very much...) I managed to get myself a lift as far as Stirling, which was lovely.
The lift was lovely, that is, not Stirling.
I mean, I'm sure stirling has some lovely things about it, but the only features I could see were a castle, some kind of monument to Mel Gibson, less sunshine than Aberdeen, and not many people.
Well, not many people at the bus station at the arse end of the Shopping centre, and I must say I'm rather glad about that.
I think if there were any more people I would have asphyxiated.
Either Stirling breeds heavy smokers, or bus stations do.
Anyway, the ride from Aberdeen to Stirling was lovely, thank you, and holding lively conversation with somebody, while that somebody is reading your lips in the rear-view mirror and driving down a dual carriageway at 70mph felt much safer and nicer than I would have previously conjectured.
The bus station in Stirling feels tired and sad on a Sunday lunchtime, with no real people on staff, the cafeteria deserted, and a photo-me booth making out-of-order noises in the corner ("Oy! You! Baldy! why don't you f*** off...." Oh, not those kind of out of order noises... it doesn't matter. Joke for three people...), with a clueless security guard and a sleeping tobacconist, and almost unbelievably hopeful timetables tacked to the wall for company.
The promises laid out in timetable doctrine were optimistic, definite and far-reaching.
And as time went on, it seemed, far fetched.
There didn't actually seem to be any buses.
Although many were gathered in the bus' Name (with clouds of smoke to prove it), there seemed little proof for the existence of a Bus in itself.
The minutes ticked by.
My faith was waning.
I believe, in that short time, I became a bus-agnostic.
I was Busnostic.
I became angry with the authorities that had led me to have such faith in the existence of a Bus.
I became angry with myself for my blind belief in the Bus, and my reluctance to doubt before that minute.
My spirit sank.
I lifted my eyes up to the road. I needed to get to Glasgow. From where would my help come?
And then I saw it.
Descending upon the bus station from the slipway and the cloud,
Resplendent in white (or white with 'Citylink' painted on it, anyway)
And as the first sunbeam in Stirling that day danced across its wide windscreen, in a blinding flash I knew that the Bus had come.
That the bus was alive, not just in the hearts of the faithful, standing neatly in a line ahead of me as if they'd never harboured doubt, but alive and here with us, at Stirling Bus station.
The bus truly exists.
And laying my heavy burden in the safe hands of the luggage compartment I went to my seat and was given rest.
The Bus carried me away from dour cloudy Stirling, and into the light.
And from that moment, and for at least the next fifteen minutes after that, I accepted the Bus as my personal Saviour.
It had, after all, personally saved me. From Stirling.
And as systems of beliefs go, I have to admit that for that time (around half an hour), it matched up admirably to many other world religions I've come across.
The fare was reasonable, the seats were comfortable, and at least the destination was guaranteed...
According to some report published somewhere, women can have vocabularies twice as big as men.
I think this is good.
I also think it is nice.
My favourite things about the weekend - number one, in a series of some, or maybe one.
In my favourite Chemists' shop in Oban (Semi-Chem, so called because they only spend half their time selling pharmaceuticals, and the other half rearranging all their stock so that you can't find anything) I found a packet of 'dual-purpose panty-liners', which amused me greatly, and led to all sorts of conjecture about what the second purpose (the purpose apart from lining panties) could be.
Mental images of panty-liners stuck to fridges with 'need milk' written on them, conference centres full of people with panty-liner name-tags and kidnappers improvising panty-liner gags, kept me amused all the way down to Glasgow.
Friday, September 13, 2002
Toodle pip then,
I'm off to Aberdeen for the weekend.
Where there are pubs and parties, oil rigs and Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals.
And murders, according to the news this morning.
Have a beautiful weekend, in case I don't check in, be happy and joyful and whole people, loving and dancing the nights away.
Incidentally, having made a candle with one slightly annoying person this week, when I came to take it out of its mould, the wick fell out, and, being unable to put a whole wick back in, I instead jammed one centimetre of wick in the top, hoping she'll never burn it.
Am I a very bad person?
Thursday, September 12, 2002
So, at some point over the summer, someone left half a bag of 'scripture mints' lying around somewhere.
They were 'wintergreen'
They were small, hard sweets, each in a slightly overlarge, individual wrapper, on which was printed the company name, website address, and a small but improving passage from the Bible.
They were evangelical sweets.
And fair play to them.
They were very refreshing. Gave you that 'just brushed' (away sin) sensation.
The part I thought could be improved upon was the sweet itself.
On either side was the Christian 'fishie' symbol, with the word 'Jesus' written in capitals.
Above and below this symbol - on one side - 'Love Him' ,
And on the other side, similarly - 'Worship him'.
I just thought these could have been more factually correct, more instructive, that's all.
It's a breath freshening mint after all. What's so wrong with; 'Eat him, in place of one of those other slogans?
'Suck him'?
You know when you find that pair of boots at the back of your wardrobe?
That pair that you haven't worn in a couple of years but can't remember why?
That pair that don't look too badly worn, and actually - on a day like today - look like quite a good idea, what with the weather and all.
When you look at the rest of your shoes, caked in mud or still damp, too flimsy for autumn or with heels like a short prostitute trying to look big, stinking of sheep poo or stinking of old wet shoe stink,
and then you look at the boots.
And the boots look like a good idea.
In fact, the boots might actually be glowing. And singing.
You just can't remember why you stopped wearing the boots...
I warn you. Stop before you wear the boots. There was a reason you stopped the last time.
They really, really, fucking hurt.
I only know this because I wore the boots today.
Put those boots back into that wardrobe.
Better still, plant daisies in them. And never be tempted again.
I like it when television programmes are advertised as starting at funny times - like '8.27'.
It makes television seem all fallible and human.
I need to get out more.
I had a friend called, well, let's call him 'Jamie'. Not a good friend. I just worked with him, really.
But we got on well.
Anyway.
From the life of Jamie comes one of the sweetest stories I know.
I don't even know why I find it so sweet. Anyway.
Before Jamie worked in the theatre, he owned a clothing company.
Called the Bubble Car clothing company.
It was popular, in the early nineties, in Manchester, and Jamie had many friends. They called him Mr Bubble, because of the company name.
At some point, Jamie got a girlfriend, Claire. But christened, for simplicity's sake by Jamie's friends, Mrs Bubble.
So several years went by, and Jamie and Claire decided to get married. But he didn't particularly want to take her name, nor she his.
So they compromised.
They changed their names, officially, by deed poll and everything, To Mr and Mrs Bubble.
And for some reason I can't quite put my finger on, I think that's one of the cutest things in the world.
Actually, I have to admit, I had thought there would be more retrospective news programmes and remembrance documentaries on the television.
Not that I wanted more, that would be a strange thing to actively want.
But I was expecting more.
But I suppose daytime television is daytime television.
When I went back to bed and curled up, it was the same old mix of interior design, antiques, sick children and women talking about men.
And periods.
Life may change, but daytime television will remain.
The day of judgement will come and will go, daytime television will be as it was.
Wednesday, September 11, 2002
The wind is whipping around the buildings, the rain coming in showers and bursts, and it is dark outside, at eleven o'clock in the morning.
There are many candles burning in the Abbey, and some people are in there, sitting in silence, remembering the events of a year ago and the last year, and thinking about what is yet to come.
The television is full of the same violent images again.
The radio is sirens and wailing.
I'd forgotten how nice it must be to holiday where I live.
Or where I live for the next few weeks.
People come here and holiday all the time. I never do.
So, I'd taken a few days off for packing reasons, and it's fantastic. Amazing.
I'm on holiday.
And it's wonderful.
I wish I'd skived more now.
Days off for packing have co-incided with another of the smallest 'blog-meets' in the world (usually it's me and her, or me and her and him, this time, for a change, we have him over to visit...).
Actually, now I come to think of it, I should probably stop calling it a 'blog-meet' everytime I meet up with certain friends or close family... There's no real point, is there?
Anyway.
So, if anyone wants me, I'm either in my room, packing.
Or at the beach, splashing in the surf and shouting at otters, running my hand through rock-pools and poking sea anenomenomenomies with sticks.
I like being on holiday.
You get to eat out and drink a lot.
I need to go to bed now.
Does the word 'swum' exist?
I've been arguing about it so much today I can't remember anymore.
I know 'swim' exists.
And 'swam'.
Does 'swum'?
I know it's a stupid question. Don't all shout at once...
Yes, You at the back there....
Tuesday, September 10, 2002
Thank you for the guidence on the bird.
Obviously it's gone now. That was days ago.
Actually, I just wanted to check that no-one else thought of the thing I wish I'd thought of.
In the actual situtation I did, in fact, leave a large note with a big arrow pointing and shouting in capitals "LOOK! Dead Spuggie! Do not tread upon!", and in the morning someone found it, did not tread upon it, and instead moved it, because they were big and tough and grown-up and not me.
It was only the next day, when someone pointed out that I should have left a suicide note that I realised the whole episode could have been so much funnier."I can't take it anymore.I just wanted to check that the collective wit of commentors couldn't have come up with that idea either.
The never-ending diet of worms and rich tea biscuits is too much.
No body's impressed with a sparrow.
I wish I was a peregrine falcon.
x"
Thanks.
Although the white chalk line was bloody funny.
Well, at least my university have hints of my organisational skills some time before I arrive.
Overexcited at recieving the fax with my official offer, I dated and signed the reply form and faxed it back immediately.
And recieved a phone call ten minutes later asking why I'd not ticked the box with 'I accept' written next to it...
I asked if she could tick it for me, but she made it sound like fraud...
Monday, September 09, 2002
Ok, hypothetical situation:
It's late in the evening, you're going out for your last cigarette of the evening, into the cloisters of the Benedictine Abbey in which you live.
[hypothetical 'givens' in this situation, you smoke. And you live in a Benedictine Abbey. Work with me here...]
And there in the doorway at the top of the stairs, is a dead spuggie. (read; 'sparrow'(or 'a small bird' depending on where you're from.(although you may have sparrows in the US) (I have no idea how many pairs of brackets I'm in now.)))
You have an instinctual fear of dead things.
You cannot move around the bird, cannot move the bird, and will not touch it.
Yet, you don't want anyone in the morning to not notice it and step on its head.
That would be icky.
You want to leave the bird in its resting place, the resting place in which someone else will deal with it, in a manner that means they will notice and not tread on it in the morning.
There may also be some comic value inherent in this situation.
What do you do?
Sunday, September 08, 2002
Some one told me the cutestmeteorlogial,metrialogical,meterological, theory about weather the other day.
Weather on Iona, and why it is different from weather on Mull - the big island next door, or the mainland - the even bigger island next to that.
Apparently, so the theory went because there is little else on the west side of Iona onward, nothing at all in fact, until about Nova Scotia, storms come rolling in from the Atlantic Ocean, and pass over Iona, and don't really bother with it, (because it is small and low-lying) waiting instead until it hits Mull, which has mountains and things, and drops all the rain on them.
I like that theory. It's cute.
And I don't care if it's a basic and naiive version of a much more simpler theory, I like it.
If I'm wrong, don't tell me.
Don't rain on my parade. It is small, and low-lying.
Meanwhile, blasting that theory into small charred bits, outside the clouds have become incredibly dramatic, and darkness has fallen, suddenly.
There is thunder. And there is lightning.
These are very wonderful things.
Things I love.
But I'm going to get off the computer.
Sometime before I leave.
Sometime before I leave I will sit at table, in the middle of dinner with 80 people, I will be tired and grumpy and bored with conversation and I will tip my head back, open my mouth, and scream.
If people under four can do it, why can't I?
Just because I'm now in my mid-twenties, about to enter post-graduate study, am at the age where I am supposed to have gathered some kind of social skills and own four books on etiquette. (Not that I'm at the age where I'm supposed to own four books on etiquette, I just do. I've never read them, like...)
Just because none of the adults around me open their mouths and scream "Christ I'm bored! Arggggghhhhhhh!" over their vegetable lasagne -
Why shouldn't I?
Yes, because it's the kind of behaviour that people fire you for. And send you to counseling for. And look disapprovingly at you for.
Tits.
I'd really like to do it. Just the once.
I've come to a point now where I am at the same time adept at inane conversation and thoroughly sick of it.
I know, I know, if you're good at something, you should carry on doing it.
I don't think that applies to inane conversation.
They also get up in the middle of a meal and play with lego.
I never get to do that.
I'm assuming the person that found the site through 'testicular cancer ribbon' was looking for the kind of ribbon that one wears in solidarity with Testicular cancer suffers (on ones coat, say), rather than a ribbon supporting Cancer charities that one actually Pins to ones testicles.
But with the general standard of my search referrals, it's difficult to know...
Saturday, September 07, 2002
Autumn?
Where went that?
That happens though? Doesn't it?
It's this whole other, gradual season where summer fades into otherness, cool breezes and rich fertilising smells, rotting leaves, wet earth, or at least it is in my imagination, or memory, or something...
Certainly, the last time I looked, autumn wasn't just another word for 'windy'.
But it is, here.
Or alternatively it is just a little warm-up for winter.
But not warm.
What's the opposite of warm-up? A warm-up that's cold?
Oh, it doesn't matter. It's raining and wind-ing and all those other things, anyway.
It makes me long for London, where autumn smelt like leaves from the Plane trees on our street, and the air had just a little bite, and a distinct smell of September, and then October, and definitely November.
Here - you turn your back for a minute and it's winter.
No hint, no slow movement, no browning of leaves (no trees...), no gentle slide through a season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, just *BAM!*, it's winter.
Or not even just *'BAM'*, it's more like - like - like, well, you know those kind of movies where in the middle of a news broadcast or just normal programming, or whatever, TV monitors all over the world flicker on and off
and then the evil mastermind appears and announces his plans to take over the world - it's more like that really.
As if the weather around Iona is one of those television sets.
Oh, it makes sense in my head, imagine a pretty summer scene with happy music-Summer. Lalalallala.And then he throws a big bucket of water over everybody.
flick! (wind, rain etc)
Summer. La la la...
Flick! (wind, cold, etc)
Summer. La?
Flick
Summer?....
FLiCK! "MUAH-Ha-Ha-Ha ha! You pitiful island dwelling types! You were expecting Autumn weren't you?
Weren't you! A-ha-ha-ha-ha-HA! You'll not see sunshine again for six months! It will rain!
And it will wind! And oh boy! Wait til you see the sleet I've got coming to you!
MUah-hahahahahaHA!
Suck on that, you sun loving pussies!"
Or flicks the switch on his giant weather machine.
Or something like, anyway.
I wish the world was more like the inside of my head.
Of course, in the course of my writing this, on and off for most of the day,
The sun has come out, the wind died down and the rain stopped.
Here I am, late again...
So, the mice are back then.
And partly, that's ok, because I'm leaving soon, and even when I'm not leaving I don't have to be alone with them too much...
But when I am there alone, they're doing those things that I hate.
Scuttling.
Scampering.
Snuffling.
Scuffling.
Scratching.
Those and all those other words that begin in 's' and end in 'ing'.
Squeaking.
Shitting.
Sleeping.
Scadoodling.
Shagging, no doubt.
All those 's'/'ing' words
Obviously not all other words that begin in 's' and end in 'ing' apply to mice.
Swearing, for example, I've never understood them to be doing that, although they might be.
Shopping, i shouldn't think so, they don't seem to own wallets. Just to chew them...
Smouldering, although that would be interesting, like a particularly slow burning indoor firework...
Swaggering. I never thought mice had the hips.
Swooning - For goodness sake - they're less than a centimetre from the floor, that's hardly a swoon at all....
Sashaying?
Thursday, September 05, 2002
bisy. bakson.
Wednesday, September 04, 2002
I just saw a bat, by the way, add that to the list below...
I was about fouteen when I hacked my leg while shaving it.
I didn't mean to.
I was in the bath, and still inexperienced at shaving limbs.
I knew it was something we were expected to do, being female and all - hell, I read magazines, I knew these things - but I was never properly instructed how.
So when I felt a small nick on the back of my ankle, I thought very little of it.
I thought very little of it as I got out of the bath, as I wrapped myself in dressing gown, as I walked through the house and lay down on the sofa to watch television.
I started thinking about it again when I realised there was a sharp pain and a small puddle in the area of my ankle, and a constant trail of scarlet marking my path around the house.
It wasn't a cut, not a little nick.
I'd cut my mole off.
Which was a shame, because out of the four, it was my favourite mole.
I'd cut my mole off, I realised, and then it started to hurt. And it started to hurt a lot.
Not just emotional pain - favourite mole and all - but pure, biting, physical 'ow'.
It was gone. Plughole and all...
And it bled. And it bled, and it bled, and it bled and eventually, it stopped.
And the pain was gone.
And the mole was gone.
Then the mole came back. With a vengance, five years later, just as big as before, and then a little bigger, just as pretty as before - like having a little bit of Marilyn Monroe's face on the back of your ankle - but with nasty little hairs. And ones that you couldn't shave off. Because of, you know, the whole cutting off and 'ow'-y thing just a few short years before.
And then she got a little bigger, and a little more itchy, and a little less pretty.
So we took her to the doctor.
And the doctors took her away.
You know - I never realised that moles had roots, like teeth. It makes sense, I guess, but I never knew. I was lying face down on the table, local anaesthetic on my lower left limb, the pressure of knives and tools and fingers without the associated pain, and then, in a moment of - well, it seemed like triumph, the surgeon came round and presented me with a small black spot with a big pink root on a little metal tray.
He asked me if I wanted to keep it.
Mate - I said I was fond of it. Not that f***ing fond.
I'll get over it, I thought. And I have.
I have a new favourite mole now.
It's the one just next to my armpit.
On reflection, I realise, it's a lot more Marilyn than the other ever was.
I don't know why I'm talking about this. I suppose it's the wildlife theme.
Today - wildlifily-speaking - I saw five toads, one corncrake twice and a dead shrew.
I'm having a very wildlifey week, one way and another.
I mean, there was the peregrine falcon, all the usual starlings, that golden eagle thing last week, the mouse at my friend's house the other evening
(oooh! I didn't write about that, did I? Well, it's not a great story. I was heading out of the back door for a smoke, this tiny little moving thing caught my eye, I looked down and there was the cutest little mouse in the whole wide world. I responded, not with a scream, or any kind of chair-jumping-on action, but with a very simple, terribly girly 'ooh! Ooooooh!'. It was very sweet.)
the bunnies, the apparent sighting of whales and - what are those things that are like dolphins but not dolphins? - Porpoises.
Ducks, chickens,
damnit! why is my e-mail being horrible to me? I hate my e-mail. I hate computers. meh.
doves, sheep, midges, scary cows, jellyfish, pied wagtails, Woodcocks (please, children, no sniggering at the back there, the wods 'wood', and 'cock' placed next to each other are not in themselves amusing...) crows, sparrows, mink, cormorants, seagulls and shags,
earwigs, dead shrews, corncrakes, and toads.
I am the wildlife queen.
If I felt any kind of affection for them whatsoever, I'd be ever so much more impressed with it all.
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
So today, for some reason, the candle making session turned into a tongue-twister session, with one German and one Spanish guest attempting Tongue Twisters in English.
And then writing down tongue twisters for us to try in their languages.
It led to the most interesting conversation though, about nonsense sentances and then to nonsense words.
She was amazed, and after we'd talked about it for a couple of minutes so was I, at the amount of words the British have for 'that object whose name you know but can't put your finger on right now, not even if it kills you.'
You know... That thingie.
Doodah. Whatsit. Wadjamacallit. Whojamaflip. Thingamiyjig.
I even spent some part of ten minutes explaining the difference between 'Wadjamacallit' (That object that I'm thinking of and is recognisable in context but to which I can't immediately put a pronoun [yes, pronoun, not noun, with apologies to my invisble sub-editor. I think I slept right through that particular class, I still can't remember which is which])
and
'Whojamacallit' (That person I'm thinking of and is recognisable in context but to whom I can't, right now, put a name)
And the dual nature of 'Thingie', as applicable to both person and object.
Same with 'Doodah'.
Both people in the room with English as a second language could think of generic words for 'thingie', in their language, but only when applied to an object, and that was the only word.
I know that the Inuits have 200andwhatever words for snow, but does any other language have a range of words for 'that thing (or person) for which (or whom) there is a perfectly straightforward name but one that has completely slipped my mind...'
I'm very curious about this, now.
Anyone?
A bunch of people - or some - have asked me if I'll keep doing the little red boat when I leave here.
I hope so.
I want to.
But here I have a computer on tap - or at least available midnight onward - there, well, I don't yet know.
It's a university. They're going to have free computers, right?
Maybe I should buy one.
I've secretly wished long enough and no-one's just given me one, so maybe I should bite the bullet and buy one.
I should bite the bullet, go into prostitution, mug some old people, sell all my other possessions and just buy one.
I guess I'm relying on the free university computer thing then....
Yes, you'll be getting updates from glasgow. As often as I possibly can. Oftener. If I can find a way.
Little red boat is my main addiction and only discipline.
I shan't give her up.
Not yet.
Does it say anything about your personality if, while you approach or stand at the bar, you make a pile of your coins in the palm of your hand, in order of decreasing size from palm upward?
That's normal, right?
No one just hands over a higgledy-piggledy handful, right?
You make a pile.
I was just wondering.
Monday, September 02, 2002
Most of the blogs I read have just pointed out that it's the first of september.
I'd like to agree with my esteemed colleagues, and also to confirm this.
It's the first of september.
I know. Because I checked.
And it said it was.
What this means, of course, is that I should start a countdown to leaving. Because, I think, the theory is that I'll be doing that in approximately one month's time. Around the first of October.
But I'm not going to start a countdown. Well, no more so than I have just done, by simply saying I might.
And I'm not going to be starting that countdown for two reasons.
reason 1; My concentration span isn't quite that long, and I'll forget to have a countdown at all by about Thursday.
reason 2; While being extremely excited, I am also just a little apprehensive. Well, Scared, actually.
Why am I scared?
I'm glad you asked me that. (Well, glad you asked me that through the medium of me.
In my voice, you asked me that.
Or through my fingers.
Whatever. Where was I?)
To answer; I don't know. It's a new thing. A big thing. A different thing. New people. New city. New house.
It's a big old journey into the known and the unknown.
And what the hell am I going to wear?
I mean, wandering around in trousers the size of Canada is fine on a small island, nobody cares.
Baggy, paint-stained jumpers so roomy they'd be better put to use in some kind of refugee camp (for a family of four) (plus family camel) may be comfortable and practical when painting large areas of patio with small children, but they're not really the chic post-grad-student look I was thinking of...
I have to retune my mind to 'city' mode. Crossing roads, not wearing waterproof trousers, streetlights, all those kind of things.
And I've a month to do that in.
Not that there's any kind of countdown.
None at all...
Sunday, September 01, 2002
In case anyone was worried, the peregrine falcon that was trapped has managed to get out.
It took a lots of doing, but it was done.
And now it has flown away.
Big dumb ungrateful, dove-munching budgie.
Just had the most interesting conversation in the pub about ideal relationships.
Whether it's the kind of people that come here to work or the kind of people I choose as friends, I find it unusual that the kind of relationship stated as 'Ideal' for most of us was the one in which you can say "I love you, I trust you, I'm off to Australia to work for a few months, I'll love you just as much when I come back."
The kind of - have a home together, things in common ownership, know that you belong together but not have to be together half of the time - that kind of thing.
I don't know if I'd ever want to sacrifice being entirely myself or having my own freedom, and I'd never want to ask anyone else to offer that either.
That would be icky.
Is it so unusual to want or have this kind of relationship, this 'two individuals living together (and living apart) in love' relationship?
It's not unheard of, obviously, but is it acceptable?
You know, outside Iona?
Because it sounds like a great idea when spoken here - but then, so does world peace and general humanitarianism and stuff...
And we al know how that shit works in practice...
In other news, a wild Perigrine Falcon has moved into the Abbey Church and felt itself trapped, meaning that, for the first time in anyones memory, worshipping-servicy-things are being taken in the dining room, or the cloisters, the common room or outside in the garden, to avoid scaring or irritating the big fuck-off bird of prey in the church. It's a beautiful thing.
The bird and the result.
a weblog by anna pickard
(adrift in a sea of commuters)
(adrift in a sea of commuters)
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